by Matt Hilton
‘So,’ she said, and set down her coffee cup. ‘We’ve a few threads to follow, some things to ascertain first, and a couple of return visits to make.’
‘The priority is Margaret Norris,’ he stated. ‘Hopewell might go after her next.’
‘There’s a patrol car sitting outside her house for now. I rang her while you were showering, and she’s agreed to go and stay with a friend for a few days until things settle down with Hopewell.’
‘She still good with us looking for Jasmine?’
If Jasmine had deliberately run away to escape Hopewell’s return to Maine, her grandmother might feel it unnecessary to continue paying a private investigator to find her. She might assume that once Hopewell was no longer a danger, Jasmine would come out of hiding. Tess hadn’t hinted that Jasmine could be in danger from another man entirely; if she had then it would add an extra layer of concern Margaret could do without. But neither had she discussed dropping the case, because it simply wasn’t her way. Jasmine could indeed be safe and sound, living in anonymity someplace, but where there was even an iota of a chance she’d fallen into the hands of a predator, Tess wouldn’t turn her back on her. Paid, or unpaid, she’d pledged she’d find Jasmine – and now she thought on it, the other missing girls as well.
‘I’m looking for her,’ Tess stated, and it was enough for Po.
‘OK,’ he said, and his affirmation held as much weight as hers.
‘So,’ she said, with a wry curl of her lip. ‘We need to speak to Daryl Bruin again. Trojak too.’
‘My favourite people.’ Po sniffed. ‘Bruin knows something he isn’t saying.’
‘F’sure,’ Tess replied, and Po squinted at her usage of his dialect. Tess smiled; she’d been teasing, but she wondered how many other of his traits she’d absorbed since they’d become a couple. And now that Pinky had arrived she thought it wouldn’t be long until she referred to herself as ‘Tess, me’. She chuckled at the notion, and immediately looked for the big guy. Pinky was through in the guestroom, and by the mumble of his voice was either talking to himself or was on a cellphone. He was on an impromptu vacation, but likely business back in Baton Rouge still required his attention. How on earth, she thought, did an ex-cop become the lover of a convicted killer, and best friend of an arms dealer? Hell, whatever the fates had in store for such a grouping of friends, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘Not so sure about Trojak,’ Po put in. ‘The guy’s a douche, but he’s being used.’
‘I tend to agree.’
‘Only tend to?’
‘Turn of phrase, Po.’
He winked, sipped coffee.
‘So when do you want to go ruffle Bruin’s feathers?’ he asked.
‘First thing in the morning. It’s getting late now, and in this horrible weather I’m betting he’s settled in at home.’
‘You have an address for him, or just his office?’ He shrugged marginally. ‘You want, I can take Pinky out for a tour, maybe knock on Bruin’s door as we pass?’
‘I could find his home address like that!’ Tess clicked her fingers. ‘But I’d prefer we met him at his office.’
Po checked the time on the clock on his oven. 20:51. Still early, but maybe not for a home visit. ‘That girl’s going to be out there another night,’ he pointed out.
Tess hung her head. It was a fact that wasn’t lost on her. ‘Nothing we can do about that now. Not that I’m going to stop looking. I’m going to go check my programs, follow those threads I found earlier and hopefully come up with something conclusive Emma can work with.’
‘So I’ll just hang,’ he said, but without recrimination.
‘You’ve a guest to entertain,’ she reminded him.
He paused, thinking, then gave her a searching look. ‘I couldn’t put him off coming.’
‘And I don’t expect you to. Pinky’s your best friend, and mine.’
‘It’s just I thought it might be inconvenient just now.’
‘Not in the least,’ Tess assured him. ‘It keeps you out from under my feet while I’m working.’
‘Huh! Nice to be appreciated,’ he said, but with a twinkle in his eyes.
She stroked his cheek, felt the stubble of a full day’s growth under her palm. He put aside his coffee, and pulled her into his arms. She leaned back her head to accept his kiss, but he turned her, and sent her on her way with a slap to the butt. She giggled, looked back at him coyly. ‘Don’t work all night,’ he warned, then with a wink he lowered his voice to add, ‘I’ll leave my bedroom door unlocked.’
Tess collected her latte from the counter, and used it to toast Po’s idea.
She met Pinky in the hall.
‘Did I just hear Nicolas promise to leave his door unlocked?’ he teased.
Tess felt her cheeks colouring.
Pinky winked. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if he woke up with a different bunkmate than he was expecting?’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Ho ho!’ said Pinky. Then with a lascivious grin, ‘Maybe he’s not the only one who should lock his door, pretty Tess.’
‘Pinky, you are shameless,’ she laughed.
‘Shameless and proud.’ He leant to nudge her gently. ‘Hey, you couldn’t give me the number for that hunky bartender, could you? He looks as if he might enjoy some company this wild and stormy night.’
Chris Mitchell wasn’t overtly gay, he wasn’t camp or effete in any outward manner that she’d noticed, and yet Pinky must have recognized the signs. That, or he simply liked what he’d seen: she thought Chris’s good looks and athletic build were probably more alluring than the bloody gauntlets he’d been wearing. ‘I’ll see if I can introduce you guys,’ she promised, then reached up and patted Pinky on his cheek affectionately.
He shambled off to greet Po in the kitchen, and Tess left them to get on with their guy stuff, heading for the spare room where she’d set up her iPad and a spare laptop, through which she’d patched in to the programs she was running at home.
An alert icon was jumping up and down on the laptop’s screen, so Tess immediately hit the keyboard to waken it.
The latest item her search had thrown up dismayed her. She sat heavily in the chair in front of her temporary work station as she read the report.
That very evening a hiker had stumbled over the remains of a woman in a shallow grave near the shore of Quabbin Reservoir in Massachusetts. The police had released few details yet, but the location of the grim discovery forced a heavy weight on Tess’s heart. When studying the map earlier while plotting the disappearances of the girls she’d already listed, she’d been aware of a huge body of water sitting neatly between the angles formed by Interstates 90 and 91. Was this discovery a coincidence, or was this the first tangible proof that a savage predator was working that self-same catchment area through which Jasmine might have travelled? She had no way of telling, but she was prepared to go with her gut, particularly now that a body had been found. For no good reason she could think of would a woman’s body be interred in a shallow grave: this was the foulest of play.
‘Is it you, Jasmine?’ she asked the screen, and her voice was forlorn.
She didn’t want to, but she looked deeper, at the first photographs released from the scene.
An arm, discoloured and gnawed on by wildlife, protruded from the earth. It was slim, toned, a young woman’s. It was gloved in intricate tattoos that absurdly blended with the carpet of wildflowers that formed a backdrop. In a ghoulish sense there was artistry in the entire image, totally by accident and unwarranted, and it brought a deeper sense of sadness to Tess. She clicked on the next image, and this one made her briefly close her eyes, before she again forced herself to look. The woman’s head had been partly uncovered – possibly by the hiker after making the shocking find, who had dug to reassure himself he must be wrong about what the arm signified, and then realizing the awful truth when the face was disclosed. Tess had no way of telling if the bloated, bruised and cut face was that of
Jasmine Reed, and even if the dead girl could speak she would be unable to clarify. The gaping mouth was hollowed out, the poor girl’s tongue severed uncleanly at its base.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sliding a thumb under the right shoulder strap of his suspenders, Daryl Bruin snapped it against his chest as he observed his cousin John Trojak with no attempt at hiding his disappointment. Bruin had oiled his hair, but it wasn’t his only feature that was slick. He wore a film of perspiration on his features, and his underarms were practically dripping, staining his expensive button-down shirt. His excessive perspiration had nothing to do with the temperature: more fear of losing everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. He’d had a poor start in life, and into young adulthood, but he’d learned quickly that if you wanted anything in life you had to reach for it, grab it by the throat and never let go. His ethos had stuck with him, and when he thought about the small empire he’d built himself on the back of all that hard work there was no way he’d give it up without a fight. Shit! How could one damn mistake – out of hundreds – come back to haunt him like this, to threaten him with destruction?
He snapped his suspender against his chest again.
‘You understand how important this is to me, Johnny?’ he asked.
Trojak was standing by the picture window in Bruin’s office, as if peering out over the mouth of the Fore River towards South Portland, but absorbing none of the sights: not that there was much to see except a few distant twinkling lights dancing in the darkness. It was after ten o’clock, pitch black out, and still pouring down. He was watching Bruin’s reflection in the plate glass, as if ashamed to meet his gaze directly.
‘Do you understand, Johnny?’ Bruin asked, sharper.
‘Yeah,’ Trojak replied, but there was no conviction to the word.
‘I don’t think you do. I really don’t think you understand the consequences, or what they’ll mean for you.’ Bruin laced the fingers of both hands together, leaning forward over his desk. ‘If I go down, you go down too.’
‘I didn’t have any part of it,’ Trojak retorted, finally turning his head to stare over his shoulder. There was disgust in his gaze.
‘Who employs you, Johnny? Who signs your damn pay cheque? Who keeps Vero in all the fine things she demands? You? Are you responsible for all those things?’
Trojak nipped at his bottom lip, but his eyes were flat.
‘I don’t need reminding, Daryl.’
‘Oh, but I think you do. You’d be nothing without me. Look at what I’ve given you: a job, a home, stability. Where would you be if I hadn’t given you all those things? Stacking goddamn shelves at Walmart!’
‘There’s no shame in that,’ said Trojak. ‘Many good people have to stack shelves to earn a living.’
Bruin balled a fist, hammered it down on his desk.
‘Is that all you goddamn aspire to? No! That’s not what you meant at all. Are you saying what you’ve done for me is shameful?’
Trojak fully turned and stared at his cousin. ‘Why don’t you ask yourself the same question?’
Bruin’s hand slapped against his chest. ‘There’s nothing I’ve done that I’m ashamed of. Nothing!’
Trojak lifted his eyebrows.
‘You’ve the temerity to judge me?’ Bruin demanded. ‘Look around you, Johnny. This—’ he swept an arm, encompassing not only the office but everything he owned – ‘did not come from making easy decisions. But they were the right decisions. The right decisions for me, and for you, you ungrateful son of a bitch.’
Trojak’s eyelids flickered at the curse.
‘Look at you!’ Bruin went on. ‘You couldn’t even hold down a normal job. Stacking shelves? Don’t make me fucking laugh! How long are you going to last dealing with all those foul-mouthed ignorant customers? You’ll have a knife in somebody’s guts first day on the job.’
‘I’m not nuts.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Bruin laughed scornfully. ‘Go tell that to Max.’
‘You told me to punish him.’
‘I didn’t tell you to nail his fucking hand to a table. That was on you, Johnny, not me.’ He sneered. ‘What was on your mind? You thought Max needed punishing for his part in what happened?’
‘You’re twisting things, Daryl. You’re afraid that when the police come for you, you’ll be charged with all the things you’ve made me do. You told me to hurt Max for holding out on the detective; how’d you think that was going to end?’
‘See!’ said Bruin, hammering his desk again. ‘I knew it. I knew you’d try to throw all the blame back on me. Take some fucking responsibility for your own actions, Johnny. That’s all I’m asking of you. That’s all I’ve ever asked, goddamnit!’ He sat back in his plush office chair, the air wheezing out of the cushions as he settled. ‘That’s all, Johnny.’
‘I can’t help it if I can’t find Jasmine,’ Trojak said, and his tone had lost its defiant edge; now he sounded more like a child seeking encouragement. ‘I’ve done my best, Daryl.’ He touched a sore spot on his head. ‘I don’t know what else you expect from me.’
‘Your goddamn best, Johnny! That’s what I expect. I need you to try harder.’ Bruin placed his face in his hands, wiping away the slick film of sweat. He showed his wet palms. ‘Look at me, man. I’m worried, Johnny. Worried for the both of us.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Trojak admitted. ‘I’ve tried every way I can think of to find Jazz. Don’t forget, I’m no detective, Daryl. I tried to speak with Tess Grey; she knows what she’s doing, but she won’t work with me. She’s no fool, but even she’s having no luck finding Jasmine.’
‘You have to make your own luck,’ Bruin said wearily. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to impart to you all these years. Take the fucking initiative, why don’t you?’
‘Please don’t curse.’
‘Fuck you. Use some of that prissy attitude to get motivated! If that doesn’t work, feel those goddamn bumps on your head again and use them to put a little fire in your belly!’ Bruin stood, pushing back his chair with the backs of his legs. ‘Come here, Johnny.’
Trojak faltered, wondering what was coming next. But in the end he obeyed, walking slowly to meet Bruin, who came around his desk. Unexpectedly, Bruin hugged him. Trojak stood rigid, his eyeballs almost protruding from their sockets. Bruin stood away, but left both hands resting on Trojak’s shoulders. ‘We’re family, right? Me and you against the world.’
Trojak nodded, but with a caveat. ‘And Vero.’
‘You love Vero, right? And you love me? Well, look …’ Bruin reached up and dug his fingertips into the back of Trojak’s skull. Trojak shuddered against the pain flaring through his wounds but held his composure as Bruin made his point. ‘Cal Hopewell did that to you. He hurt you, Johnny. He took the initiative like I always say to you, and he hurt you.’ He squeezed his fingers tighter and this time Trojak was forced to flinch away. ‘Now he’s going to hurt the two of us, and that will hurt Vero much worse than him hitting you around the head a few times. You heard what he did to Max, right? Stuck a bottle in his throat? Well, Johnny, that’s nothing to what he’ll do to us if he ever admits what happened. If you can’t find Jasmine, then find Cal. Hurt him before he can hurt us. All of us.’
Trojak’s agreement was almost imperceptible.
‘But how do I find him?’ he asked.
‘The same way you did last time. That sick-minded son of a bitch never could keep his dick in his pants. From what I hear he’s got a boner for Tess Grey. You watch her, he’ll turn up sooner or later for her.’
‘But what about that Po Villere dude?’ Trojak asked.
‘You afraid of him?’
‘I’m not afraid of anyone, or anything, except maybe losing Vero.’ Trojak’s nod was firmer this time. ‘I’m not going to allow any of them to ruin everything for Vero.’
‘She’d never forgive you if you did.’
‘My wife has nothing to worry about. Neither have you, Daryl. I’m on this.’
‘Good, Johnny! That’s what I need to hear. That’s the John Trojak I want at my side. Against the world, right?’
‘Right,’ said Trojak, then with a sly grin: ‘Damn right!’
Daryl clapped a hand on his cousin’s bicep. ‘Off you go, then.’
Dismissed, Trojak left.
Bruin sat again, peering now at his own reflection in the plate glass. Outside, Portland was awash with rain. The storm though still wild wasn’t as intense as it had been, but the conditions might assist Trojak. When people were sheltering their heads from icy rain and wind they tended not to be alert to their surroundings. Maybe this time the idiot would actually come through, and if he played things right could get to Hopewell or Jazz by hanging on to Tess Grey’s coattails. One of them needed to be permanently silenced, preferably both. Bruin wasn’t kidding when he warned that if either spoke about that fateful day then he would be finished. He didn’t give a shit if Trojak fell with him, and it’d be just desserts if that sour bitch Vero ended up panhandling the streets for her next fix, but he felt he’d motivated his stupid cousin enough to get the job done. Trojak was a complex individual, but only when trying to make sense of his skewed thought processes: there was a man who despised bad language but would happily stick a knife through a supposed friend’s hand; who wouldn’t lift a hand to save himself from the battering fists of his shrew of a wife, but would face anyone else fist for fist, knife for knife, without a waver of concern; who would show defiance when asked to do something, but would always go off wagging his tail if Bruin patted him on the head like a good little puppy dog.
Did he regret using his cousin in this way?
Like fuck, man!
It was as he’d told Johnny earlier, to get where he was Bruin hadn’t made the easiest decisions. But they were the right decisions. And to save his own ass, and everything he’d earned, he’d gladly put his cousin’s life on the line. He’d happily order the deaths of the two people most likely to destroy him. If it came to it, it’d be best if Johnny wasn’t around at the finalization of all this, because once Hopewell and Jasmine were out of the picture, and if Max perished from his wounds, he’d be the only person left who knew Bruin’s dirty secret.
